


All I have to do is fall

by Jean____Ralphio



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Footballer!au, M/M, footballer!Chuck, physiotherapist!raleigh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jean____Ralphio/pseuds/Jean____Ralphio
Summary: When high profile striker Chuck Hansen does the unthinkable and makes the transfer from his father's club, Arsenal, to their rivals Chelsea FC, he discovers his lifelong crush, former star winger Raleigh Becket, now works as Chelsea's head physio.This is what Chuck expects: he'll make a name for himself away from Herc's shadow; he'll easily wrack up points for Chelsea and they'll win the Premier League. And the Champions League. And the FA Cup for good measure; Raleigh Becket will want him in return and the sex is going to be eipic.This is what happens instead: Chuck's relationship with his father falls completely to pieces; he can't seem to score and quickly learns exactly how much it sucks to be benched; Raleigh Becket is literally the most morose loser Chuck has ever encountered.At least the sex is good. Not that they talk about it. Raleigh may be hotter than sin, but thank God Chuck doesn't actually like the guy.... does he?
Relationships: Hercules Hansen/Stacker Pentecost, Raleigh Becket/Chuck Hansen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the first few chapters of this dumpster fire have been floating around on my computer for years.  
> Finally setting them free so that hopefully my writer's block on this fic will stop and I can get it finished!  
> Wish me luck!  
> Thank you to my amazing beta's, I'm so grateful <3

Chuck’s in the shower when his phone rings, rinsing away 7 kilometres worth of sweat from his morning run. It had drizzled the whole time, London’s pavements slippery, Finsbury Park waterlogged, the sky grey and the buildings dull in the weak light.

Getting back to his penthouse apartment in Highbury is like returning to a sanctuary, both in terms of warmth and anonymity. When Chuck steps out his front door these days, the inevitable attention makes him square his shoulders, smirk at the paparazzi, smile at the fans. As much as he revels in the interest paid to him, it would be kinda nice if, just once, he’d be able to go for a walk outside without anyone knowing or caring about who he is.

All Chuck does is kick a ball around for a living. He’s bloody good at it, but still.

A few passing joggers this morning had recognised him; one bloke in a West Ham beanie had done a double take and openly gawked as Chuck had passed him, heading in the opposite direction with his head tucked down, Slipknot blasting his eardrums. It’s all part of the job, being recognised. It’s the staring that some people feel compelled to do, the blatant slack-jawed gaping, that he doesn’t like, that makes him feel like something ‘other’, an alien, an animal in a zoo.

Chuck’s enjoying the strong jet of spray directed right between his tense shoulder blades, but his phone keeps ringing, over and over. It’s only 6:30am, so it’s weird for even the obsessed fans who’ve somehow got his number to call this early.

Chuck’s reasonably sure he knows who it is, and what the call is about; he’s not sure he wants to answer. He didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Eventually, he decides to finish his shower, though he eyes his phone through the ensuite doorway as it lights up incessantly on his bed. When he finally, grudgingly, gets to it, a towel around his waist and his hair still damp, it bursts to life in his hand again, his agent’s name on the screen.

Chuck pulls in a deep breath and hits answer so hard he’s surprised his thumb doesn’t crack the screen.

“Tendo? I just got back from my run.”

Normally, Tendo would try to wind him up with a bit of mockery, because he’s a wanker like that the vast majority of the time. But he’s all business this morning. Well, as business as he can possibly bring himself to be.

“Charles! Glad I caught you bright and early, then. Don’t go to training today. It’s done.”

“It’s done?” Chuck echoes, feeling cold all over once more, unable to stop the twist in his gut that’s seeping through him, insisting that he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

“Done and dusted last night, Chucky. I’s are dotted, T’s are crossed, all signatures present and accounted for except yours. So, there’s no need for you to head to the training grounds. You’re not a Gunner anymore, you’re a Blue!”

That makes Chuck’s eyes prickle, and he’s so glad the call isn’t video.

“God...”

“I’m bringing the release contract to you now, and we’ve got an appointment with Hannibal Chau and Stacker Pentecost at Chelsea’s grounds in Cobham straight after. Got to get this transfer official before it leaks, Charlie.”

“Yeah.”

“It will be high profile. Well, everything you do is. But the press won’t take kindly, and, well… I expect the Arsenal fans won’t be happy, given…”

“That I’m betraying them for our biggest rivals? All the years and effort and money Arsenal spent training and developing and moulding me, and I walk away for… hey, how much did my old man agree to the release for?”

“That’s the thing, Chaz!” Tendo guffaws like it’s all a big game, a funny joke, instead of Chuck’s life and heart and… “That’s just the thing! He didn’t even ask the fee! I sat down and told him the jig was up, you were ready to move on. I explained that Chelsea had made the initial approach and before I could say anything else, he signed the papers and told me to get out of his sight!”

Chuck hangs up before Tendo can hear his quick intake of breath, and he’s still anxiously pacing about the apartment in just his towel twenty minutes later when his agent arrives, all bowtie, slick hair, suspenders, and grin.

“There he is!” Tendo howls when Chuck opens the door for him to come breezing inside. “There’s Chelsea’s newest number 9!”

He claps his hands onto Chuck’s bare shoulders and appraises him, then decides against a hug. “No, not while you’re not wearing underwear, that’s too weird.”

What Tendo does do is cook Chuck a tomato and spinach omelette, while Chuck fumbles into some clothes at last. When he comes back out into the dining room, he finds his release contract on the table, a pen waiting, next to his plate of breakfast.

“Fuck,” Chuck breathes, stunned all over again just staring at the sheaf of papers, as Tendo plonks himself down in the chair opposite and pours himself coffee from the French press. Chuck had made it before his shower, and the face Tendo pulls means it’s long since gone stone cold.

“Yeah,” Tendo carries on airily, heading into the kitchen, probably to scrounge a fresh coffee, his voice floating around the corner. “All went fine last night, leaving the training grounds in the rear-view mirror. I was in and out in 5 seconds, my favourite kind of interaction!”

He laughs hysterically at his own joke, but Chuck barely hears him. He wishes he’d been there to speak for himself, and now viscerally regrets his decision to stay away and send Tendo, like a coward. He should have looked his father in the eyes and told him all the reasons why he was doing this. Because it _isn’t_ to hurt Herc, and it isn’t to betray Arsenal, and it sure as hell isn’t for the money.

His reason for leaving the club he’s played for since joining their youth academy when he was 9 all boiled down to the pure and simple fact that Chuck couldn’t exist in Herc’s shadow anymore. Chuck is good. He is _damn_ good. He’s sprinting along in the footsteps of Ronaldo and Messi, on par with the likes of Benzema, Neymar, Lewandowski, and he’s not even 22 yet. He’ll be another absolute legend, another Beckham, another Ibrahimovic, another Pele.

But there’s two problems.

One is his father.

The other is everything that makes Chuck himself.

If he was going to achieve his dreams – and no, those aren’t for fame and fortune and model girlfriends (he’s already got all that) – then Chuck had to get away from at least one of those things.

He couldn’t hide from himself, but at least he could run from Herc.

Chuck is a talented striker, but Herc twenty years ago was something else. Chuck’s old man would always be a hero, a household name that was synonymous with Arsenal, as well as the surprising success of Australia’s NT. Herc had been regarded as the best central defender in the world at one time: solid, stalwart, and unflinching. Some strikers even used to turn around and run _away_ from him when they’d seen him barrelling towards them. Herc served as captain of Arsenal for a decade in his prime and was made assistant coach immediately upon his retirement; he’d now been at Arsenal’s helm for ten years as the head coach. He had successfully, dependably, and reliably led Arsenal in some capacity for twenty-five years straight.

His son was supposed to follow in his footsteps. His son, however, could not bear to.

Like most strikers, Chuck was more than a little bit cocky. His arrogance feeds into his confidence, which in turn equals plenty of goals. He’s a show-off, selfish, an attention seeker. And what made him so good at his job is that he wasn’t ashamed to be any of those things. He likes himself, likes his swagger, likes the life he was living and the direction it’s heading. He certainly isn’t captain material like Herc; he’s far too mouthy, too aggressive, too prone to answer taunts on the pitch with his fist. Trick shots are Chuck’s forte, when he got them right, as were long runs down the pitch, the ball safe between his fancy footwork. He thrives on every goal and having to share glory numbs his enjoyment. He doesn’t pass often, and would always choose to score before assist, which he had been howled at by Herc until he was practically deaf plenty of times.

If he stays at Arsenal, at Herc’s club, Chuck would never be free and he’d always be held up against his father – too much of a showman in comparison, unreliable, not enough of a team player, always lacking. Always wanting.

But somehow, the Arsenal fans loved him, despite his arrogance, his selfishness, his downright conceitedness. They liked his cocky attitude just as much as they liked his skill. Most of all they liked the goals he scored, the points he put on the board, how high he pushed Arsenal up the table. His teammates were good blokes, phenomenal footballers, but they begged him to pass more, to focus, to forget the showmanship. The coaching staff, his father especially, were constantly frustrated by him, sick of trying to control and contain his reactions, his outbursts. And the media, from the commentators on match-day, with their sly digs and critiques, to the fucking Daily Mail, who ran articles every day about who Chuck was dating, what he was wearing, where he was eating out, what car he was driving… the media were parasites.

And they were going to have a field day with this transfer.

Chuck didn’t bother to buy too much into the London derby between Chelsea and Arsenal. It was hilarious to rile up the opposition in the tunnel, or in the press-conferences before and after the matches – Chuck did that just for fun regardless, no matter their crest. Besides, the transfer from Arsenal to Chelsea wasn’t unprecedented. Two of Chuck’s friends, Cesc Fabregas and Olivier Giroud, had played for Arsenal before joining Chelsea. Petr Čech had done the opposite transfer too, leaving Chelsea for Arsenal after 11 years with the former, and both the teams and their supporters still bloody loved him. Petr was just that sort of guy.

Chuck was loved, but he was not loveable.

When Tendo finally returns from the kitchen, the contract is signed, and Chuck is pulling on his shoes.

“You can drink that in the car,” Chuck points to the mug of coffee Tendo is clasping. “But if you spill it on my upholstery, I’ll burn all your bowties.”

Tendo has finished it by the time they reach the street, anyway, and leaves the mug in Chuck’s letterbox.

Tendo is weird.

‘Blue is the colour’ is cranked through Chuck’s car stereo the whole drive down to Cobham, Chelsea’s training grounds in the Surrey countryside. Tendo grins at him from the passenger seat and tries to get him to sing along.

“Get used to it!” his batshit agent crows. “Start memorising the words, Carlos! They might quiz you!”

Chuck doesn’t grace that with an answer, just clenches his jaw and focuses on the road. The drive takes about an hour – he will have to move closer, out of North London at least. There’s no way he’s doing this commute every day, since getting through London is a fucking nightmare 24/7, even with the ring road.

Tendo waves to the security guy on the gate when they arrive at Cobham, and they’re let through without fuss. Chuck parks outside the main doors – there are practically no other cars about – and before he’s even turned off the ignition Stacker Pentecost has appeared.

Chuck tries to smile back as he slides out of his car, but he still feels a bit sick, and more than a little intimidated. Stacker’s always intimidating. He reaches for Chuck’s hand to shake, his eyes calm and commanding, and the firm grip grounds Chuck a little. He’s known Chelsea’s head coach all his life – Stacker was something of Chuck’s honorary Uncle, being a close friend of Herc’s. Just clapping eyes on him always made Chuck stand up a little straighter.

“Morning, Chuck. Hello again, Tendo. Come on in, I’ll take you to the boss.”

Hannibal Chau – extremely rich and frivolous to the point of seediness – had owned Chelsea FC for three decades. He was the reason Chuck – and in past years the likes of Torres and Arrizabalaga – could afford to be purchased.

“I spoke to your father about ten minutes ago,” Stacker tells Chuck over his shoulder as he gestures for them to follow him inside. The walls are painted Chelsea blue accented with white, and Stacker leads them down a wide corridor covered in murals of former club legends. “You ought to give him a call, Chuck.”

The admonishment is clear, but Chuck just shakes his head, not meeting Stacker’s gaze.

“Not yet.”

Stacker lets the issue drop and pushes through an ornate set of gold double doors. They are led straight through a waiting room of some sort, with plush blue armchairs and what looks to be an ice sculpture of the Chelsea lion, and into Hannibal’s office.

The room is so stupidly large that it seems to take forever to walk the blue runner that led to Hannibal’s desk at the far end. Photographers are clustered about the large windows looking out onto the grounds, but as soon as they spot Chuck they swarm in, snapping photos of his historic arrival to sign his life away.

“Chuck!” Hannibal stands from his desk and embraces Chuck like a long-lost son, making sure to beam for the cameras as he does so. “Welcome! Welcome!”

Chuck wishes he’d dressed a bit better than in a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and a backwards hat. Hannibal’s suit looks terrifyingly expensive and he was scared to get too close in case he caused some sort of damage to it. And his shoes… crocodile skin? Really?

Tendo takes over the proceedings, attracting attention with his wit and banter, making it so that all Chuck has to do is mug for the cameras, sign Hannibal’s copy of the contract and hand over his own.

After five minutes, Chuck wants out of the room so damn badly, his fingers trembling a little as he picks up the pen, as everyone eyes him. Stacker, behind him, gives his shoulder a brief squeeze, and once he’s signed the contract, Hannibal hugs him again. As if that could in any way be a comfort.

Stacker hands him a Chelsea shirt, ‘Hansen’ and the number 9 on the back in white. Chuck swallows very hard but hides it by yanking his t-shirt over his head and pulling on the kit shirt in its place. It fits perfect, and then there’s more smiling at the cameras, Stacker’s hand on his shoulder, Hannibal beaming next to him.

Then, mercifully, Tendo wraps an arm around Chuck’s shoulders – he has to stand on tiptoes to do it – and steers him from the room, calling jokes to Stacker and grinning at the journalists as he does so.

“See you bright and early tomorrow,” Hannibal yells after them. “We’ll get your medical out of the way and introduce you to the staff and the team!”

Chuck nods, not trusting himself to speak, and doesn’t take a breath until he’s back in the safety of his car, Tendo blabbering away at his side.

“You’ll go to the Arsenal grounds and get my gear for me?” Chuck cuts Tendo off to ask, running a hand over the Chelsea crest on his chest before he peels the shirt off.

“Yeah,” Tendo shrugs. “If you want. Are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself, though?”

“No,” Chuck insists, as he finishes re-dressing and pulls his cap back on. “You go. Please.”

“Sure, sure,” Tendo waves a hand absently, leaning forward to fuck with Chuck’s stereo once more. “Hey, what’s on your Spotify, Chip? I’ve got a hankering for some T-Swift!”

Chuck lets out an audible groan as he floors his accelerator. The sooner he gets home and can kick the wanker out of his car, the better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta readers are literal angels <3

After a restless night spent tossing and turning in bed, begging his brain to shut the guilt out long enough to let him sleep (it doesn’t), Chuck calls his dad as he drives to Cobham for his first training session with his new team.

He’s alone this time, and he feels groggy and nervous and not ready for this, any of it. He’s not ready for the call to connect, to hear his father’s voice. He’s not ready to arrive at Cobham without Tendo to hype him up, to protect him, to anticipate his needs, to attract unwanted attention away.

But ready or not, Chuck breathes deeply as he pulls over not far from Cobham’s gates. All he can do is tackle one terrifying issue at a time. He pulls up his dad’s contact on his phone and hits dial before his brain can panic him out of it.

“Chuck.” Herc’s tone when he answers gives nothing away. Chuck can practically see him, undoubtedly already behind his desk at the Arsenal training grounds, drinking black coffee and wearing his usual red hoodie and jeans.

Chuck opens his mouth, but can’t think of anything to say, isn’t in the mood for an argument, and doesn’t want to have to explain himself either. Herc should understand – probably would, if Chuck used actual words and talked to him – what he’d done and why.

But things don’t really work that way between them, and when the silence stretches too long and painful, Chuck hangs up.

He gets out of his car at the grounds at the same time as Olivier Giroud clambers from his Bentley, and Chuck’s never been so happy to see his old teammate in his life. Hooting his name, Olivier strides across the lot to greet Chuck with a long hug that involves a lot of backslapping.

“It’s good to see you, Chuck!”

“Good to see you too, Olivier.”

Jorginho jogs to catch them as they make their way inside, smiling and shaking Chuck’s hand.

“Great to have you on our side now, Chuck!”

It continues that way, men who two days ago were amongst his fiercest rivals are now his teammates, instantly his beloved brothers. Chuck’s hand is shaken, and his shoulder is clapped so many times that he loses track of who he’s being introduced to, until Cesar Azpilicueta wades into the cluster in full captain mode. He grabs an armful of Chuck and leads him towards the locker room, yelling at the lads to give him some room to move.

What happens next is…

Well.

The room is empty except for N’Golo Kante, who’s sitting on a bench with one arm extended out to the side, gripping a stress ball hard to expose the tendons on his wrist. He lifts a chin in greeting to Chuck, and the physio who’s been crouched in front of him examining his arm notices the movement and turns to face Chuck too.

Chuck stops dead in his tracks, or at least he would have if Cesar’s guiding arm hadn’t dragged him a few more stumbling steps forward. His heart seems to stop for a minute, too, as his brain scrambles to equate what he’s seeing with reality.

Standing before him is Raleigh Becket.

Raleigh _fucking_ Becket.

Blonde and blue-eyed and tanned; the star of pretty much all of Chuck’s wet dreams and wild fantasies since he was old enough to have them. And he still is, to be honest. And now Raleigh’s here, right here in front of Chuck, extending a hand to shake with a small smile on his face.

“Welcome, Chuck. I’m Raleigh, head physio.”

“I wondered what happened to you,” Chuck blurts, in lieu of a normal greeting, because he’s a fucking idiot the vast majority of the time. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding?”

Raleigh shifts back a little, friendly expression overcome with wariness so fast that it’s like a switch has been flicked.

Raleigh and his older brother Yancy were once the heroes of every football fan currently aged 20 to 35, even those who hated Chelsea – even Chuck had worshipped them. They’d been phenomenal, and when played as a partnership were quite simply the best wingers in the world. To watch them on the pitch together had been a revelation; quick and clean and deadly, perfectly in sync with each other.

That was up until five years ago, when a bad car accident had killed Yancy, Chelsea’s captain at the time. Raleigh had been badly injured in the crash, his arm crushed and the left side of body receiving horrific burns. The footage of the wreck was seared on Chuck’s brain; he’d devoured all the media coverage that he could, desperate for it to not be true, glued to video after photo after interview, until Herc had begged him to stop, his eyes wet.

Raleigh had never returned to the pitch, even after the media interest died down and the coverage had eventually slowed, then stopped. He had seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth in the immediate aftermath of the accident. Chuck couldn’t recall the last time Raleigh had even been pictured in public, not since the funeral of his brother, the footage of him bearing the casket on his right shoulder as lead pallbearer.

A lot of Chuck’s lingering disgust for the media had stemmed from their treatment of the Becket family – Raleigh and his little sister Jazmine – in their grief. As Herc’s son, Chuck had long since grown accustomed to paparazzi and journalists, their blatant invasion of privacy and the cameras thrust in his face. But what they’d done to the Beckets had sickened him, even as a teenager. They paparazzi had chased Jazmine, only 15-years-old at the time, down the street when she’d first ventured out of their home in aftermath of the funeral, and Raleigh had been issued a restraining order for punching one journalist in the face when the man had asked about Yancy’s last words before he’d died.

Only now here Raleigh is – quietly, very quietly, part of Chelsea’s physio team. Chuck had never seen him on the side-lines before; he’d have noticed him in a heartbeat. Did Raleigh just hide out back every game?

Raleigh blinks slowly at him, but Chuck’s saved any more embarrassment by Cesar leading him away towards his cubby.

“Here you go, Chuck! All yours!”

Chuck nods at him, focuses on unloading his bag, changing from his street clothes into his workout gear and trying not to gawp too hard at Raleigh.

He’s just shaking hands in greeting with Mason Mount, when Stacker and his coaching staff come striding in. The rest of the team is shooed out onto the grounds to train with the fitness coaches, Sasha and Aleksis Kaidonovsky, but Chuck is hustled off in the other direction to complete his medical.

Chuck’s happy for any excuse to peel off his shirt in front of Raleigh, but despite allegedly being head physio the older man hangs back and barely seems interested. There’s plenty of other people to try and impress with his fitness level (and physique), Stacker and his assistant coach Mako included, but Chuck quickly becomes disinterested in the attention of anyone but Raleigh.

Only when the medical – a laughably easy basic fitness test, and a few miles on the treadmill while sensors track his heart rate – is over, does Raleigh come forward to talk to Chuck. His eyebrows are creased in confusion about something, and it’s kind of adorable. The team doctor wanders away to talk to Stacker, leaving them alone.

“Why are you only doing your medical now?” Raleigh asks him. “We should have done that before the contract was signed.”

Chuck glances pointedly down at his bare torso. “I _think_ I’m fine, mate.”

Raleigh, for some weird reason, doesn’t even look at his body, just keeps staring at Chuck’s face, apparently perplexed.

“There’s any number of hidden defects or problems that could have slipped under the radar, things you might not even be aware -”

“Look, just because you haven’t noticed I’m fucking fit doesn’t mean everyone else needs a signed doctor’s note!”

Now Raleigh just looks more confused, but Mako appears, laying a hand on the physio’s arm and speaking to him in Japanese. Raleigh’s mouth turns down a little, but he lets Mako hook her arm through Chuck’s and pull him from the room.

Chuck purposefully leaves his shirt hanging from the treadmill, but if Raleigh notices, he doesn’t bother to call him back.

*

The days that follow are an utter scramble.

The transfer window closes and the media fucking _hound_ Chuck, as he’d known they would. Tendo earns his pay, making generic statements while doing his best to keep the journos and paps off Chuck’s back. Hannibal Chau holds several grand press conferences to talk up his newest striker, coy about how much he paid but bragging about how many goals he expects in return. Stacker Pentecost gives a single interview about the transfer, what he hopes to get out of Chuck, and how he sees him fitting into Chelsea’s future.

“He’s a phenomenal talent,” Stacker is as calm as ever and just his relaxed tone eases Chuck’s nerves as he watches the interview from the comfort of his couch. “He’ll be a fantastic addition to the squad, and I’m looking forward to seeing what he brings to the table for us.”

Just hearing the consideration, the trust Stacker has in him both frays Chuck’s nerves and hardens his resolve. His bed is made now, and he has to sleep in it.

Herc and the Arsenal camp are silent, though their fans bray for Chuck’s murder. Football fans are… something else, sometimes.

Chuck’s free time, when not training at Cobham, is spent trying to find somewhere to live, viewing houses after training every single day of his first week with Chelsea. His first game with his new team is creeping up, his first chance to prove himself under a different coach’s thumb. Chuck just wants the stress to end; the nerves of trying to fit in to a new team after a lifetime of Arsenal, the discomfort of not-his-father barking orders and directions, the annoyance of Raleigh fucking Becket not even fucking sparing him a single fucking glance the whole week, and sitting in London traffic for so long each day, ugh.

He views a 5-bed mansion in Stoke D’Abernon, not far from Cobham, which has a tennis court and swimming pool. Chuck has no idea what he wants, what sort of home he’s looking for, but it’s obnoxiously big and expensive so he declares it perfect, puts in a stupidly high offer and makes Tendo handle the rest. It’s not Tendo’s job, per se, but Chuck makes him a fuck-load of money, so he usually does whatever Chuck asks of him with a shrug and a dirty joke.

The paperwork for the sale takes a few days to process, so Chuck occupies himself with packing up his London apartment, wanting to be ready to move as soon as he’s able. He’s bone tired by the end of his first week as Chelsea’s number 9, and heartily accepts when Cesar invites him out for drinks in Cobham village with the team on Friday, even though the trainers complain that the alcohol will undo all their hard work (and Raleigh scrunches his mouth up in a frown that’s just too fucking cute).

But it feels good to unwind with the lads, even though Chuck cops a bit of teasing for how spectacularly and publicly his last relationship (with a crazy attractive French chef who had incredible hands and muscles for days) fell apart.

His last fight with Julien, outside a bar in Paris a month ago, had been filmed by paparazzi and sent to pretty much every major news outlet in the world. They’d caught every minute of it, Chuck barrelling out of the club after Julien, the argument on the pavement, Chuck scrambling to explain the Italian lingerie model’s phone number on the back of his hand, Julien rounding on him, red-faced, furious, humiliated.

“I can’t take any more of your bullshit, Chuck! You want to be single so badly? Bravo, now you are!” Julien had stormed off and Chuck had realised immediately that he had no real desire to stop him.

Chuck took a long swig of his beer in response to the memory, spilling a little when he set the bottle down too hard on the scrubbed tabletop.

So, yes, Chuck has a bit of a problem with commitment – he’d phoned the Italian lingerie model later that night and they’d spent a bloody good weekend holed up in a hotel room with a view of the Eiffel tower. Shame he couldn’t remember her name. Perhaps he’d never known it to begin with.

Most of his serious relationships – with men or women, it never mattered – ended in the same way. His wandering eye (and hands and lack of inclination to keep his pants up) always got him in trouble, and after a few months of the same person, the feeling of being trapped culminated in alcohol, loud music and going home with someone else.

But whatever, Chuck’s not even 22. Commitment… even the word makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Not for him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Speaking of distaste, Raleigh shoots him an unimpressed glance across the other side of the pub, eyes flicking pointedly to the three beer bottles now empty in front of Chuck.

Chuck rolls his eyes and turns back to Cesar, Olivier, and Mason, who he’s sitting with at his little corner table. If Raleigh had something to say, let him come over and say it.

_Please_.

But when Chuck flicks another glance Raleigh’s way a few minutes later, bottle pointedly at his lips, Raleigh’s pushing his way out the door with Mako only a few steps behind.

“What’s the deal with them,” Chuck asks Cesar, a little too angrily. “They fucking or something?”

“Who?” Cesar follows his line of sight to see Raleigh getting into the passenger seat of Mako’s blue Porsche through the pub window. “Oh, Raleigh and Mako?”

The other guys around them all laugh heartily as they trade knowing looks.

“No,” Mason says, still chuckling. “Nothing like that. Just… best friends, you know?”

“You don’t get one without the other,” Olivier agrees. “But no, not ‘fucking’, as you say.”

“Thank God for that,” Chuck doesn’t catch himself in time.

“Ayyyyy, you like her!?” Mason crows. “Or him?”

Chuck refuses to answer but they tease him raucously anyway, not letting up until Cesar finally takes pity and puts his foot down, apparently deciding it’s high time he shoo everyone off home to rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my betas <3

Chuck’s first game for Chelsea sees them playing in Manchester, and they arrive on a frigidly cold mid-week morning. Chuck spends most of the coach trip alternating between trying to get Raleigh to notice him, dozing in his plush blue seat, and smirking as he scrolls through thirst comments on his Instagram.

Raleigh, who’s sitting near the back of the coach with Mako, doesn’t pay Chuck the slightest bit of attention. He doesn’t look at Chuck once, doesn’t notice (perhaps mercifully) when he gets tangled up in his headphone wires trying to stand, doesn’t seem to hear any of his jokes, no matter how loud Chuck lets his voice carry. Raleigh’s completely immersed in whatever he and Mako are watching, their temples touching as they lean against each other’s shoulders, his eyes on Mako’s tablet as they share an earbud each.

Chuck’s not jealous.

Chuck’s maybe a little jealous. But just a little.

Chuck doesn’t get it. Usually, he just _looks_ at someone, and they’re hooked. Even straight guys usually shoot him at least a second glance. But from Raleigh… nothing.

But Chuck doesn’t get given the time of day the whole ride up, even when he saunters past Raleigh when they were about three-quarters of the way to Manchester and catches his eye, _finally_. Chuck gestures with his chin pointedly toward the toilet and winks. The meaning is clear, but Raleigh just rolls his eyes and goes back to the tablet. He stays engrossed in it for the rest of the trip.

Filing off the coach once they arrive at their hotel, amid flashing cameras and screaming fans clamouring for photos, Chuck pastes on his trademark smirk. He signs everything that gets shoved in his face and poses for selfies, all while hoping the metal barricade keeping the fans physically at bay will hold and that the security guys are as strong as they look.

Raleigh, Chuck notices, immediately scuttles on ahead towards the entrance amid the rest of the medical team, his face hidden under a Chelsea beanie pulled down low over his eyes, the collar of his jacket turned up. Chuck doesn’t see him again for the whole rest of the day, not during the captain’s run or at the evening meal at the hotel.

Even at breakfast the next morning, Raleigh stays huddled as quietly as he can on the fringes, engaging with only Mako or occasionally a few of the players he had reason to check up on. Chuck’s still trying to figure him out even when the team’s assembled in the visitor’s locker room at Old Trafford, squinting over at where Raleigh stands slouched on the back wall, looking morose.

The former star seemed almost scared of media or fan attention, it was plain to see, but Chuck didn’t get why. The car accident that had injured him and killed his brother hadn’t been his fault – yes, Raleigh had been driving, but black ice was black ice. Even in the horrid aftermath, Raleigh had been so adored that he could have walked right into a high-level coaching position with any team of his choice, if he’d wanted. But instead, he chose to hide, to disappear, to keep to the shadows.

Playing was obviously no longer viable after the injuries, and the psychological toll he’d suffered. He must have studied the right degree to land this physiotherapy gig, which meant long hours and dedication, not that Raleigh’s life-choices were any of Chuck’s business. He owes the continuing function of his body to physios, after all, even at his young age. Being a professional athlete took a toll, and it took it early.

But Chuck can’t shake the feeling that Raleigh is ashamed of something, and that claws at him. the reports had said that Yancy Becket died in his younger brother’s arms. Chuck didn’t have any siblings; he couldn’t begin to imagine the grief, the horrific impact the guilt over that night must have had on Raleigh. Maybe hiding was his only coping mechanism?

Then Stacker sweeps in, all trench coat and commanding gaze, and Chuck squares his shoulders and listens. They don’t pay him to drool over the resident star-turned-reclusive-physio, no matter how beautiful Raleigh fucking Becket may be.

The match goes... fine.

Chuck starts but doesn’t score until the 40th minute. He keeps up a cool and collected façade, doesn’t dare let on that he’s trying hard to score, by God is he _trying_ with all that he has during every single second. When the ball hits the back of the net, whizzing past de Gea’s head, Chuck’s so relieved he almost cries. He admires Fernando Torres, but he absolutely does not want to emulate the man’s struggle to put points on the board for Chelsea back when he was signed over from Liverpool.

Scoring goals, it seems, is the one thing that gets Chuck some attention from Raleigh.

Chuck’s peeling off his sweaty, grass-stained kit in the locker room after the match when Raleigh’s quiet voice startles him.

“Well done, Chuck. That was a beautiful goal in the first half.”

Most of the lads are in the showers, but Chuck got held up giving a post-match interview in which the journalist tried to goad him into slagging off Arsenal, Herc, and all his former fans who were now screaming for his blood on social media. 

Chuck’s not really in the best mood for flirting, but he’s also not one to let a golden opportunity slip, so he looks back over his shoulder (suggestively, he hopes) as he pulls off his jersey. Raleigh looms behind him, a small smile on his lips.

“It must feel good to score so quickly for a new team,” Raleigh carries on, as immune as ever to Chuck’s heated gaze.

“It’s up there,” Chuck agrees, as he drops down on the bench to start undoing his bootlaces. “But there’s lots that feels better, shall I show you?”

Raleigh actually laughs outright at that, loud enough that the few others left in the changing room glance over, smirking.

“Yeah, you make sure you keep that bravado up.”

“I don’t need bravado. I know how good I am,” Chuck counters.

“You’re yet to prove anything, kid. One goal under your belt, sure, but style and flair don’t always translate to competency where it matters,” Raleigh’s gone very still again, his tone almost lethal.

“Wait, are we still talking about sex? Because let me tell you, no one’s ever complained, not that you’d know!”

Raleigh groans loudly and throws up his hands in disgust before he strides from the room, not responding to the howl of “I am fucking phenomenal in bed, OK!” that Chuck bawls after him.

*

Raleigh just plain doesn’t like him, Chuck realises.

He doesn’t look at Chuck, doesn’t talk to Chuck, seems to be exiting every room Chuck enters… he doesn’t have to _like_ Chuck, of course. But didn’t he at the very least not want to appreciate the view? Everyone liked the fucking view!

Everyone but Raleigh, as Chuck discovers when he wanders past him in the locker room while clad in just a towel one afternoon, after a home game against Leicester. Raleigh doesn’t even look up from working Marcos Alonso’s calf muscle in downward sweeps.

_I’ll try again when he’s not busy_ , Chuck reasons, even though there’s really a limit to how long he can linger about in a towel, having not yet showered, when the rest of the team is mostly washed up and heading to their cars.

It’s mid-way through his fourth week on the squad, and Raleigh still hasn’t spoken to him more than a handful of times.

Sighing, Chuck heads to the showers in defeat. He’s been in there for ten minutes, letting the water sluice over him, when Raleigh wanders past his stall, checking the showers for any gear the boys might have left behind.

His eyes pass right over Chuck, despite the fact he’s literally standing there naked, in full view, the water streaming down his skin.

Raleigh’s almost at the door back to the changing room when Chuck’s tenuous tolerance snaps and he storms out from under the spray, not even bothering to shut off the water or grab his towel.

“Oi! Becket!”

Raleigh sighs heavily before he turns back to face him, frustration already playing on his features.

“Oh, so you did know I was there, huh?”

“What do you want, Chuck?” Raleigh looks and sounds tired, and he rubs distractedly at his left arm as Chuck strides towards him.

Chuck doesn’t have an answer – he’s cocky, duh, but calling Raleigh out on not being interested in him is too far. So, what was he supposed to say? _What do I have to do to make you attracted to me?_

He flounders, standing in all his glory before Raleigh and trying to pretend he’s not starting to get cold. Raleigh just scowls.

“I’ve got work to do, Hansen. I don’t have time for your games.”

“Yeah, you don’t have the time of day for me at all do you?”

It comes out more petulant than challenging, so Chuck makes sure to keep his features angry. It’s not hard.

“Not really, Chuck, no. This may be the first time you’ve ever heard this, but the truth is you’re not that impressive.”

Oh, so _now_ Raleigh’s eyes rake over his body.

Chuck just smirks, because yes, yes, he is.

Raleigh doesn’t respond to Chuck’s expression, just shakes his head, and moves to leave, but a sort of cold fury has Chuck snatching at his arm.

“Stop turning away from me!”

“It’s clearly way past time someone did! Why does it matter to you that one person isn’t falling at your feet and hanging on your every word!”

“… Because!”

“You want some attention from me, huh? Then I’ll give you attention in the form of a bit of advice. Focus on yourself and figuring out how the hell you’re going to survive on the pitch without Daddy Herc in your ear, making sure you’re spoon-fed goals. Good luck for the season, Chuck, because Hannibal is watching every single second if your performance, and believe me, if you don’t score him goals as often as you physically can, you will be shown the door. Stacker won’t be able to save you. So, stop messing around staring at me all day, perfect your form until you’re playing like a God, and try to fucking think with more than just your cock!”

He wrenches his arm from Chuck’s grasp with a pained grunt and leaves. Chuck may or may not punch the wall in anger, then sulk on the shower floor, clutching his throbbing hand.

*

It’s not even on purpose when Chuck injures himself and has to be attended by Raleigh. He’s not _that_ fucked up.

It’s his fourth game with Chelsea, they’re 2-0 down to Tottenham, and it’s heavy on Chuck’s shoulders that he hasn’t scored since his first match. The panic simmers under his skin, worse and worse with every minute that ticks down on the match clock, and Chuck only gets more and more reckless in response.

He’s pushing too hard. After a clean pass from Pulisic, Chuck’s arrogance takes over and instead of seeing the ball safely to Tammy Abraham, who’s in a great spot near the net, he takes a run up the pitch with it. He doesn’t notice Sanchez sliding in with both feet until he’s down, pain lancing up his ankle.

He screams, more in frustration than anything, and would be back on his feet and roughing the Spaniard up while howling at the ref for a penalty, but his team-mates are already doing that for him. Plus, Raleigh is there, hunkering over him like a shield, screening Chuck from view, all blue eyes and tense mouth.

“Where?”

Chuck makes a futile gesture to his ankle and tries not to gasp as Raleigh’s fingers slide over it, probing. Spring welts are already appearing on his skin when Raleigh peels down his sock.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he tries to shove Raleigh off, but gets ignored, as usual. Raleigh can’t have been on the side-lines, he never is, so he must have come from the tunnel. It makes no sense to Chuck, but his mind is too buffeted with adrenaline to be able to really account for Raleigh’s presence.

“Oi, that’s my penalty. Tam! I’m taking that fuckin’ penalty! TAM, DON’T YOU DARE! MY PENALTY!” Chuck yells at Tammy, trying to distract himself from the warm hand wrapped around his ankle. Finally, Raleigh seems satisfied that Chuck’s OK to stay on and jogs away without a word, leaving Chuck to stagger to his feet in his wake.

Wanker.

Cesar fusses over him too, but it’s needless. Chuck nails his penalty kick deep into the left corner of the net. Hugo Lloris, fit as he is, looks like a right idiot when he picks the wrong direction to dive in. Chuck _loves_ it when the goalkeepers do that.

Half-time sees Raleigh hunting him down in the changing room again, and propping Chuck’s ankle on his lap to take a closer look. Chuck ignores him. He also ignores the fact that Olivier is quietly warming up at the back of the room and pointedly not looking at him.

At the front of the room Stacker paces and points at various people, barking commands.

“Hansen,” he roars, when it's apparently Chuck's turn to receive orders.

“Sir?”

“You’re off. Giroud, on.” Olivier nods, flashing Chuck a sympathetic grimace.

Chuck knows better than to argue with Stacker, but doesn’t bother trying to hide the anger on his face or to try and control his own raging disappointment. His second goal of the season from a penalty… it’s not good. 

“Yes, sir,” he says, quietly.

Raleigh actually gives his shin a brief pat in consolation when he releases Chuck’s ankle and stands up.

“Rest it.”

“Yeah. Right. Easy enough on the bench.”

Chuck spends the rest of the match slumped in the dug-out between Callum and Ben, responding only with grunts whenever he’s spoken to and struggling to keep the bitchy scowl off his face.

They win 4-2, thanks to goals from Olivier, Tammy, and Cesar. Chuck wishes he could feel relieved.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

Arranging furniture in his new house later the following week and is as boring as Chuck had known it would be. Even worse is that he’s doing it alone. He’s driven away all his friends from Arsenal by refusing to return their calls; he doesn’t feel comfortable enough with anyone at Chelsea yet to ask for help, even the blokes he knew; his Dad won’t speak to him (or maybe he’s the one not speaking to his Dad, he can’t quite remember any more); Tendo’s a wanker; and lastly, Chuck doesn’t have any friends or a life outside of football.

By midday, he’s scowling around at the sheer ludicrous size of the second living room. He doesn’t have enough stuff to fill one of the guest bedrooms, let alone all four. His dining table looks tiny in the centre ridiculously grand dining room. How the _hell_ are you supposed to hang drapes?

Bored, and sick of trying to figure out how to reattach his headboard to his bed, Chuck gives up and takes himself off to the Cobham grounds, even though it’s a team rest day.

Hannibal’s violently yellow Lamborghini is parked right out front, as are a few of the usual suspects – vehicles belonging to the security staff, the groundsmen and some of the coaches.

Chuck heads through to the gym, waving or nodding at the few people he knows, smirk in place just so they don’t mistakenly think he’s their friend. He sets up at one of the treadmills and has been at a steady pace for twenty minutes or so when Raleigh yanks his headphones off his head, Rammstein blaring out through them.

“I told you to rest your ankle.”

“Oh, as if you care. You think I’m interested in anything you have to say?” Chuck grumbles, though in all honesty his ankle does start to hurt once his adrenaline begins to die down, especially without his music to distract him.

Raleigh’s face twists in annoyance and he opens his mouth to speak at the exact moment that Hannibal swaggers into the gym, all creepy sunglasses and weird shoes.

“Chuck! I thought I saw your bomb out front.”

Chuck’s grey Aston Martin is hardly a bomb.

“Since you’re here, why don’t we have a little chat, you and me?” Hannibal holds out a hand from the doorway as if he expects Chuck to walk over and take it.

Chuck shoots a mildly panicked glance at Raleigh as he gets off the treadmill, and the physio actually looks sympathetic. But Chuck’s being led to Hannibal’s office with the owner's arm clamped around his shoulders before he can truly appreciate it.

At least Raleigh paid him some attention this time.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Chuck,” Hannibal drawls, as he sits down behind his desk and rests his crossed ankles on the wood. He takes a sip of something clear – vodka, or white rum, maybe? – from a tumbler on his desk, despite the fact it’s only 1pm. He doesn’t gesture for Chuck to sit, so he stays standing with his hands folded behind his back and concentrates and trying to pretend he’s not tense as hell.

“Score me goals or you won’t see the mid-season.” Hannibal says it with such a calm air of matter of fact that it takes Chuck a few seconds to note the implication. But oh, does he hear it.

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. So why haven’t you been?”

“It’s been an adjustment, sir,” Chuck keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“So, adjust. And score. I paid a lot of money for you, on the understanding that you were good. So far, you’ve been nothing but a pathetic waste of my coaching staff’s time and my hard-earned cash. There are hundreds of hot new things out there like you, Chuck. Young, brash, heads up their asses. You’re not indispensable. Could be its high time you learnt that. Score or leave. Those are your options.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hannibal waves him out, and Chuck goes. He’s shaking and scared and can’t bear to go back to the gym, so he just walks straight out of the training centre, even though he’s left his water bottle and a sweater on the treadmill. Raleigh catches him at his car, hand curling around his bicep even as Chuck’s gripping the door handle.

“What did Hannibal say?”

“What do you think?” Chuck bites back, wondering at why Raleigh felt he needed to ask such a stupid question.

“Can I help at all?” Raleigh looks worried, his pretty mouth turned down, as usual.

“No. Fuck off,” Chuck spits, wrenching away before Raleigh can tell that his touch practically burns Chuck’s skin.

Raleigh shifts his weight a little, rocking from foot to foot, and Chuck squints at him. What does he bloody _want_?

“Why are you still here?”

“I just… I’ve been on the receiving end of a dressing down from Hannibal more times than I can count. It’s not fun. The number of times Yancy and I got raked over the coals, the shit we used to pull... Look, I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

“Why? That was nothing compared to what _you_ said the other day!” Chuck can’t hide how much it still stung.

“What?” Now Raleigh’s the confused one, a furrow between his eyebrows. “When? What did I say? Oh, that you need to stop thinking with your dick? It’s true!”

“Oh, get fucked! Just because you scuttle about with your eyes on the floor doesn’t mean the rest of the world hasn’t noticed me!”

“That’s all you want, isn’t it? For everyone to notice you? The attention of the entire bloody world to be on you? And you’re after me like you’re in fucking heat, just because I’m the only one who won’t pay you any mind? Go annoy one someone else for it, why don’t you! I’m trying to help your career, not provide a notch for your bedpost!”

“I don’t only want you because of that! And I certainly don’t want anyone else! I only want -” Chuck cuts himself off and looks away across the lot, fuming.

“God, you’re… you are so… so… fuck this,” Raleigh growls in frustration, and then Chuck is being pressed back against his driver’s door. Raleigh’s teeth sink into Chuck’s lower lip in a way that makes his knees go weak, before he gets kissed with such severity, such ferocity, that it hurts.

He loves it.

“Fuck yes,” Chuck mumbles against his perfect, warm mouth, winding his arms around Raleigh’s neck so he can’t do something stupid like stop.

But Raleigh starts to squirm against him after a long moment, breaks the kiss to grumble a little into his ear, then pointedly disentangles himself and pulls away. He’s walked around to the passenger door before Chuck can even gather his thoughts.

It takes a few seconds for Chuck’s enthusiastic, adrenaline-addled brain to catch up, but he gets there.

The drive to Chuck’s practically empty mansion is thick with tension; Chuck’s hoping they can at least get a quickie in before Raleigh changes his mind, or has a sexuality crisis, or succumbs to whatever the heck is going on with him right now. Because when he shoots a glance over at him, Raleigh is mostly just looking annoyed, hunched in the passenger seat like he kinda doesn’t want to be there.

They don’t talk, not until Chuck’s activating his security gate from the app on his phone.

“Fancy,” Raleigh murmurs, eyeing the house as Chuck speeds too fast up the drive towards it.

Chuck just shrugs. “Standard, for footballers, I thought? Didn’t you live somewhere like this, when…”

“Nah, never. Wouldn’t know what to do with all the space. Yancy and I… apartment in Camden, with our little sister. I’m in Fulham now. Sands End. Easier to manage getting to the Bridge, after the accident.”

“Right.”

Good one, dead brother and career-ending injury already mentioned, and Raleigh wasn’t even across Chuck’s threshold.

Chuck wonders if this is a bad idea, as he leads Raleigh inside. It probably is. A worse idea is that he just keeps leading Raleigh, up the stairs, into his bedroom, all the way to his bed, with its half screwed on headboard and no sheets because Chuck forgot to label his boxes when he packed them and couldn’t find any.

They don’t kiss again, they don’t even touch all that much, except for where it counts.

Chuck’s heartbeat is rapid in his chest, and he can’t hide the effect just watching Raleigh peeling off his shirt has on him, but… this isn’t a _thing_. It’s not emotional or tender or sweet. In the end it’s just kinda methodical, really.

He winds up on his back on the bare mattress, with Raleigh hovering over him, looking a little bit like he doesn’t know what to do, what’s OK, whether he’s meant to ask for permission to touch or not. Mostly he just looks like a bloody gawping idiot, so Chuck huffs and grumbles and swears and gets his legs around his waist to pull him closer because he has to do bloody everything, apparently.

Raleigh’s body pressed down on him is heaven, and Chuck closes his eyes to better lose himself in the sensation of broad, warm palms roaming his skin, fingertips stroking every inch of him until he’s writhing and sucking in lungful after lungful of air when it just gets too much and not enough, all at once.

When the bloody idiot finally stops messing around playing with him and actually presses in, Chuck’s seeing stars, not that he’d admit it. His legs are locked around Raleigh’s body so tightly that his calves are cramping, but the last thing he wants to do is let go. Raleigh’s groaning into the pillow next to Chuck’s ear, and it takes all his willpower to keep his own lips pressed together, to stop himself from echoing the noises of delight. The sweet rhythm they slide into has him clutching at Raleigh’s sweat-slippery shoulders, because he feels like he’ll topple from a great height if he doesn’t.

It’s not like it means anything.

It’s just them, thrashing out their issues. This is just Chuck, getting what he didn’t fully understand he wanted back when he was 15, and very much understands that he wants right now at 21. This is just Raleigh, getting a bit of pay-back for all the ways Chuck has goaded him for the past few weeks, maybe, or perhaps he just wants an easy fuck since it’s on offer, or it could be some other explanation entirely.

Chuck doesn’t know, and doesn’t care, about Raleigh’s reasons.

He doesn’t actually like Raleigh, is the thing. The guy is hotter than sin, and, it turns out, a great fuck. But he’s too morose, too boring, too quiet. Not the sort of person Chuck would gravitate to. Not the sort of person he’d bother to date, let alone _think_ about. He and Chuck are far too incompatible.

Raleigh scratches Chuck’s itch – exceedingly well, that’s for damn sure. That’s all. Box ticked. Chuck wanted him, now he’s having him, and Raleigh is moaning, and his hips are stuttering, and his hand is on Chuck’s cock to bring him over the edge of the precipice too.

When Chuck’s brain re-engages, Raleigh’s sprawled next to him, his blonde hair a mess, the skin of his shoulders and hips rubbed red from the force of Chuck’s clinging limbs.

The sight makes Chuck very cold, his heartbeat, which was only just starting to mellow, picking up again with anxiety.

“I don’t like you,” Chuck tells him, voice a little garbled from how worn out he feels. This needs to be said, though, lest Raleigh somehow misconstrue what had just happened and why.

Raleigh glances over at him, then stifles a yawn as he rolls off the bed. He’s yanking on one of his socks and casting about for its partner by the time Chuck’s managed to ease himself into sitting up.

“I’m just saying,” Chuck carries on, deigning to turn over onto his back to face him. “It was good, don’t get me wrong. Really good.”

“You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself,” Raleigh agrees, glancing pointedly at the wet mess of sweat and cum they’ve left on Chuck’s bare mattress.

“I did,” Chuck doesn’t feel the slightest shred of shame at how thoroughly debauched he feels right now. “It was great. But I still don’t _like_ you, or anything. I don’t like you all that much at all, in any way, actually.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Raleigh points out as he pulls on his underwear and starts untangling his jeans from Chuck’s t-shirt.

“Well. That’s why I’m making it clear. I don’t like you.”

“OK,” Raleigh’s voice is entirely charitable as he continues to dress, and there’s a thread of laughter to it.

“Just. Don’t go making this more than it is. This didn’t mean anything. It was good. But I don’t like you. I don’t feel anything for you at all.”

“You’ve said that already,” Raleigh’s voice is briefly muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head with his good arm, before his tousled hair and perfectly relaxed face reappear. “Need anything, before I go? Washcloth? Some water?”

“No,” Chuck scoffs, because what the fuck?

“OK. See you tomorrow.”

With that, Raleigh is out of the room, collecting his trainers as he goes.

Chuck wriggles his way over to the clean side of the bed, grabs a pillow to stuff under his head, and is asleep before Raleigh’s footsteps have even finished descending the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Tendo, the useless wanker, finally resurfaces the following month and gets back to doing his damn job properly after a fortnight long holiday.

Although Chuck had found his agent’s vacation immensely inconvenient, Tendo _had_ continued to deal with about 99% of Chuck’s press, even while reclining on a hammock in Bali with his wife and infant son. And before his plane even touched down at Heathrow, he’s negotiated a deal for Chuck to model the latest line of Tissot watches.

Chuck may not be scoring on the pitch – he hadn’t even fucking started, their last match – but the big-name brands are always gagging for high-profile athletes to model their shit. And Chuck’s still high-profile, dammit.

Not as high-profile as Raleigh’s become again; the media is foaming at the mouth for the former winger once more, since the physio had come back into focus from the brink of obscurity after he’d tended to Chuck on the pitch those weeks back. The journos begged for interviews, the paps took pictures of Raleigh buying groceries or putting out his bins, and the media screamed for him to come to the press conferences, the photo calls, the team charity appearances.

Stacker and Mako kept the worst of it at bay for Raleigh’s sake, directing attention to anything and anyone else that they can. Even Hermann and Newton, the team’s strategist and doctor respectively, step up to help draw interest away from Raleigh. The physio, for his part, tries more than ever to fade into the background, keeps his eyes down and shoulders hunched whenever he was forced to be in public.

Chuck feels bad for Raleigh, he does. But he has a job to do, and that includes the Tissot shoot.

It’s scheduled for one of Chuck’s rest days, and he has to drive out to some ruined castle in Kent, because fuck his life. Hitting the road at 4am, with Tendo in the passenger seat looking sun-browned and relaxed, trying to hijack Chuck’s stereo, and drinking all of his coffee before they’re even on the A2, bloody _sucks_.

Chuck’s now two months into his tenure at Chelsea. Which means two months of scoring nothing but a handful of goals. Two months of no contact with his bloody dad. Two months of Raleigh fucking Becket being a thing that exists again (never stopped existing in Chuck’s head, obviously, but now he’s tangible, and real, and Chuck’s had his cock in him, so fuck everything else).

It’s been one month since that first time.

And from then, it’s been every few days since.

It just keeps happening, somehow. Chuck doesn’t really care enough to question why. All he knows is that it feels good and Raleigh stops being a morose loser for however long they’re, well, _together_. So, it’s win-win, really. There’s no rhyme or reason or routine to it. Chuck wants Raleigh as often as Raleigh is willing; it’s simple. Lingering looks and baited conversations occasionally lead to Raleigh waiting by Chuck’s car or following him out to the lot like a fucking puppy, or, once, crowding him up against the door to the showers once the changing rooms were finally empty. Raleigh hadn’t even laughed too hard when Chuck’s foot had slipped at one point and he’d almost brained himself on the doorframe.

It’s nothing more and nothing less than sex. Each time, Chuck begs for it faster, harder, rougher. Raleigh always delivers, always obeys, always gives. It’s the only time they’re not arguing, sneering at each other, or spitting insults back and forth. It’s the only thing they agree on; that it has to be quick and dirty. It’s the only time they defer to each other, too.

Because Raleigh just _does_ whatever Chuck asks, gives it to him however he wants, whatever position he arranges them in. On all fours, so Chuck can cling to the headboard as he wails while Raleigh growls in his ear, is becoming common. Chuck flat on his back so he can hold his own legs open as Raleigh crouches over him… that’s a good one too. Chuck’s favourite, though – not that he imagines Raleigh particularly cares – is when the blonde lays him down on his stomach and parts his legs, then covers him with his own body, pinning him down as he pounds him. That’s… yeah. That’s the best. Chuck grips the sheets with his teeth and hands, Raleigh’s weight on him, chest pressing down on his back, thighs keeping Chuck’s legs spread, his hands pushing his shoulders into the mattress, hips holding Chuck’s down, making him completely immobile, so he just has to lie there and take it and be used…

Chuck’s glad Raleigh can never see his face, those times, will never know how flushed he gets, how his eyes slide back in his head, how bloody _perfect_ it feels.

Tendo forces Chuck’s attention off the memory of how Raleigh’s hands had clenched bruises into his hips, the last time, because he’s playing Zayn Malik and no, fuck off, not in Chuck’s car.

“Turn that shit off,” he bites out to his agent, who just shoots him a grin in return.

“Come on, Cal! Lighten up a little!”

“Get fucked,” Chuck growls.

Two hours later Chuck’s mood is no better; he’s cold, tired, hungry, and inexplicably bare-chested, but for a coating of foundation or powder or some shit that got brushed all over his torso. He’s also sitting on a horse, clad in nothing but jeans, for some stupid reason.

The animal is docile enough, and Chuck supposes their surroundings are pretty – the ruined castle tower illuminated in the rising sunlight, the meadow an endless green around them. Chuck pats the horse’s neck as they wait for the other model, some beyond beautiful girl he’s pretty sure has walked for VS, who’s been sequestered in hair and makeup since Chuck had arrived.

Tendo’s dawdling about doing nothing useful, drinking coffee and eating a doughnut and gossiping with the photographer, so Chuck shoots him a scowl just because.

Then the model, Belle, finally emerges from the wardrobe tent in some sort of frothy dress of white tulle, her feet bare and already looking cold. She’s helped up onto the horse behind Chuck and shoots him a dead gorgeous smile, but before he can offer up any suave comments, the Tissot pricks are trotting up waving the watches.

Chuck had kinda forgotten that was the point, and he glances down at the one that gets wrapped around his wrist absently while he waits for the makeup crew to finish fussing over Belle.

The horse shifts a little, probably not liking all the people clustered around. Chuck pats her neck again.

“Have we figured out,” Belle speaks up from behind him, her arms a little hesitantly settling around his waist, “how, exactly the horse and the tower and the lack of suitable clothing for 6am in the morning, contribute to an adequate campaign for _watches_.”

“Dunno, love,” Chuck twists his neck to glance over his shoulder at her. “You’re the pro, here, I just kick a ball for a living.”

She smiles at him, and she’s really very beautiful. She also looks fucking freezing, her lips trembling from cold already, and he can feel goosebumps on her skin where it touches his bare back.

“Oi, you can you pricks hurry this up! Gal’s cold, this is ridiculous! Tendo, wanker, come on!” Chuck shoots a glare at the photographer for good measure, as Tendo salutes and scurries off to start nagging people to move the show along.

“Thanks,” Belle murmurs to him, and he shrugs.

“No drama. Reckon the horse is cold too, at this point.”

“Are we actually going to be moving on her?” She sounds nervous.

“Dunno. Maybe. She’s alright; we’re good mates now, her and I, we’ve been sat here so fucking – sorry, bloody – long.”

Belle giggles, and if Tendo doesn’t stop fucking smirking and waggling his eyebrows at them, then Chuck’s going to sic his new best friend the horse onto him.

As it is, when Chuck leaves – seven goddamn hours later – he’s got Belle’s number in his phone, and he cranks the heat up in his car until it’s like a sauna just to spite Tendo the whole way home.

*

The paps spot Chuck and Belle before they’re even through the door to the restaurant, about five minutes into their first date, so, naturally, speculation for the impending engagement starts up within an hour. The media are so _weird_. The Sun swear they spot a ring on Belle’s finger, making up pure bullshit as usual, as they run grainy photos of them having drinks at the bar. Belle’s hands are completely jewellery free, but whatever. What does the truth matter when shitty gossip sells?

Rather than being put off him, Belle just thinks it’s funny. She’s so damn cool about it all, and just cool in general, that Chuck feels himself relaxing more and more around her.

He likes her. It’s impossible not to. She’s beyond beautiful and drop-dead hilarious. He takes care of how he acts around her; _wants_ to be good to her, for her. He tamps down on his anger and his swearing and his instincts to snap and sneer. He tries to be calm, attentive, kind.

Belle comes to his games and sits with the other WAGs, stunning in Chelsea blue and smiling the whole time, posting selfies to her Insta, and cheering when Chuck has the ball, even though he still struggles to score.

He’s beyond grateful to her. Her encouragement and support in the face of his ongoing and undeniable failure does more than he could have imagined possible towards quelling his panic, his anger, his disgust with himself.

If only Chuck could be faithful, they might have even had a shot at being happy together.

Because she’s great, but she’s not Raleigh.

Chuck _likes_ Belle. He can’t bloody stand Raleigh.

The irony is not lost.

Chuck’s gentle with her, all the time but especially in bed, slow and thorough, wanting to please. With Raleigh, he just takes and begs and screams for what he wants, what he needs, more, harder, you fucking wanker, _come on_. Those tamped down instincts break free, the rage that curls under his skin gets let out, the dam that is his unhappiness bursts.

Only Raleigh can strip him down to what’s real, what’s raw, what’s true, make him ache with need, ache with all that suppressed emotion.

If Raleigh knows, or would even care, that’s Chuck’s in a relationship with Belle, Chuck can’t be arsed finding out. Chuck doesn’t tell him, that’s for damn sure.

_They_ don’t mean anything. _They_ don’t exist. Raleigh is nothing to him; a boyhood crush that had turned into a hook-up; a very nice cock, a very nice body. Nothing more.

But by God is he a good fuck.

Raleigh’s being an utter wanker, one night in May. It’s a few weeks after the Tissot shoot, and they’re writhing together on Chuck’s rumpled bedsheets in his still-barely-furnished mansion. Chuck’s moaning into his pillows, Raleigh’s tongue fluttering over his hole as his fingers tease around it, and why won’t he hurry up and just fill him?

“Fuck me!” Chuck growls, as he rolls his hips back against the friction, wanting more. Training was horrific today. Stacker was unimpressed with him and his teammates were anxious, all eyes on Chuck and everybody cringing with every missed shot on goal. “Come on! I need it, just hurry the fuck up.”

“Don’t care what you need,” is muttered into Chuck’s thigh, before Raleigh nips at his balls, his ass, then crawls up to hunch over him. “Couldn’t care less.”

“Cut the bullshit, you asshole! Don’t have time for your crap!”

Raleigh lines up, still teasing, and Chuck makes an almost feral noise in pleasure at the sensation, the wetness of the tip of his cock brushing Chuck’s hole.

“Got other plans? That pretty model waiting?”

“Fuck you! Just do it! Just fuck me! Fuck me!” Chuck tries to turn, to reach for him, touch him, goad him, but Raleigh avoids his hands.

“God, I hate you,” Chuck tells him, meaning it with every fibre of his being, sweat and need pouring from his pores.

“Hate you too,” Raleigh echoes, breath hot against the back of Chuck’s ear and he’s pressing inside him, _finally_. “Oh God, you feel good! I hate you so fucking much.”

“Prove it!”

Raleigh’s pace, when he finally fucking _starts_ , is instantly punishing, too much, too hard, too fast.

Chuck loves it.

“If only the pundits could see you now,” Raleigh grunts into his hair. “See what an utter wreck you are for me. If only Belle could-”

Chuck rears backwards before he can think, acting on pure instinct as he slams his skull back into Raleigh’s face, and Raleigh howls as his nose takes the brunt of the force.

“Don’t say her name! Don’t say her name, not here, not when we’re like this!” Chuck spits, scrambling away and wriggling around so he can shove Raleigh down and get on top of him. “She’s a goddamn angel, a queen, don’t you even _speak_ about her, you worthless has-been!”

Raleigh surges up with a snarl and suddenly they’re kissing, fast and angry, teeth clacking. They never kiss, and Raleigh’s nose is pouring blood, and it’s getting _everywhere_ but God Chuck doesn’t give a shit. He sinks down on him, Raleigh’s cock rigid and hot inside him again, and Chuck clenches involuntarily around it because it’s Just. So. Good.

They both cry out as Chuck starts moving, and Raleigh swipes his arm across his face to stem some of the blood flow, other hand reaching up to clench the muscle of Chuck’s pec.

“She doesn’t do this for you, though!” Raleigh hisses at him, voice low and throaty and victorious and fuck, Chuck could cum from just listening to it. “You can say whatever you what, but she doesn’t satisfy you like this! No one else can, admit it!”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” The air slams from Chuck’s lungs with every snap of his hips, every thrust of Raleigh’s to meet him.

Raleigh just pants, looking wrecked and wild, the scars on his arm and chest standing out stark red against his tanned skin.

“Hate you,” Chuck tells him, meaning it. “Hate you. Hate you. Hate you.”

He keeps chanting it, as he gets his knees under him and can really start moving, enough leverage to sink down and then lift all the way up, as Raleigh thrashes and swears and bleeds.

When Chuck cums, harder than he ever has in his life, it’s with the taste of Raleigh’s blood in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little fyi side-note, the character of Belle in an OC, but she was originally the model Aiden Curtiss. This felt too invasive though, having a real person involved in that capacity in fanfiction. It's one thing to mention real footballers, but it's another to bring in an actual person as a love interest.   
> So Belle is her own character, but face-claim is definitely Aiden!


	6. Chapter 6

Things only get worse, because really, how else was it going to go?

Home game at the Bridge against the Wolves. Chuck doesn’t score. They win 2-0. Raleigh buzzes at the security gate of Chuck’s mansion at 11pm that night and they fuck in the entryway without exchanging a word.

Away game at Goodison Park against Everton. Chuck doesn’t play. They win 3-0. Raleigh doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention, doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t look at him once.

Champions League match in Paris against PSG. Chuck scores a single, desperate, ugly goal by the skin of his teeth, and almost cries in relief. They draw 2-2. Raleigh fucks him in the hotel room that Chuck shares with Tammy that night, while the rest of the team is at dinner. Chuck’s eyes on the door the whole time, petrified his teammate will return, praying he never, ever will so they can stay like this forever. Chuck blows Raleigh in the airplane bathroom on the flight home, quick and messy, and he kind of hates how much he loves it.

Home game at the Bridge against Sheffield. Chuck doesn’t score. They lose 4-1. Raleigh fucks him in the storage cupboard of a back room. Chuck can’t look him in the eyes.

Away game at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace. Chuck doesn’t score. They win 1-0. He has to join Stacker at the press-conference after and talk about how happy he is at Chelsea FC; how confident he feels in his ability to support his team. At the back of the room, Raleigh looks so sorry and sympathetic that Chuck is surprised the loser doesn’t just straight up burst into tears. He ignores Raleigh’s phone calls that night. He doesn’t release the security gate when Raleigh buzzes, either.

Champions League match at home at the Bridge against Juventus. Chuck’s on the bench but comes on after half-time. Scores a penalty. They win 3-2. Raleigh fucks him in the bathroom of the bar in Soho where the team celebrates, after. Raleigh comes home with him. Raleigh fucks him again when Chuck can’t help himself, climbs on top of him at 4am, panting, needing. Raleigh blows him in the shower when they finally get out of bed the next morning. Chuck returns the favour at his front door when Raleigh goes to leave, holding his hips and ignoring the blaring horn of the taxi. Raleigh tells him he’s amazing. Chuck doesn’t know if means the penalty goal or the sex. Doesn’t care to know, either.

Away game at St. James Park against Newcastle. Chuck scores two goals. They win 4-1. Raleigh comes to his room that night and says they should have a Talk. Chuck laughs and laughs and laughs until he cries, then tells him to get fucked, and to fuck off.

There’s nothing to say.

*

If Belle figures any of Chuck’s deception out, she doesn’t let on.

She and Chuck go on dates, kiss sometimes, have sex occasionally. She’s stayed over at his place a few times, he’s stayed at her flat, met her mates (bunch of wankers).

Being with her is good, great, wonderful, even. She calms Chuck’s anger, soothes his fears, gives him something else to focus besides his failures on the pitch, allows him to care about someone else besides himself. Chuck only has to clap eyes on her getting out of her car in his driveway, or see her name lighting up his phone notifications, or hear her calling out to him from the stands when he strides out of the tunnel at the Bridge, and everything feels a little bit better.

She’s his only real friend.

The media screams for them to do another photoshoot together, a follow-up to the Tissot campaign; they beg for more interviews, demand a wedding date. Tendo has fun dropping just enough hints to keep the idiots baited. Belle just laughs about it all, beautiful and carefree, and pats Chuck’s cheek in consolation whenever he grumbles and scowls at the invasion to their privacy.

She’s so calm and kind in the face of questions that it amazes him; even when she’s being hounded straight off the catwalk for Chanel in Paris, still in dewy makeup, her hair coiled in braids around the base of her neck, her dark skin stunning in some sort of take on a tweed business suit, no shirt, just the trousers and a jacket open to her navel.

Chuck watches the livestream of the show on Insta, hunched over his phone in Chelsea’s coach on the way to Norwich. The boys tease him, but still press eagerly over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the models. Salivating wankers, the lot of them.

The reporter who looms over Belle backstage doesn’t waste any time, shoves a microphone in her face.

“Is Chuck Hansen here for the show?”

“No, he’s got a match,” she smiles, relaxed and ethereally beautiful.

“Will he be joining you at the Met Gala in a few weeks?”

“No. He’ll be in Italy. For a match.”

“There’s been rumours of, shall we say, a certain question being popped…”

“No,” she shakes her head, laughs, beams at the camera. “We’re happy exactly as we are.”

Is she? How can she be? How can Chuck possibly make her happy?

He doesn’t look at Raleigh the whole rest of the trip, and something in his chest clenches, tight and sore and hollow and wrong.

*

Chuck’s been with Belle for about two months when the London derby rolls around, and even with how much he’s come to admire, respect, and rely on her (not love, no, he can’t, but God does he wish he could), she can’t help him through this.

He’s trembling as he gets off the Chelsea coach at the Emirates, the red-clad fans already waiting, already booing, already screaming their derision, their hatred, their disgust. The security guards press in a little tighter and Cesar is there right next to him too, a comforting, solid presence at Chuck’s side even though they usually file in one by one.

Chuck keeps his head down, turns his music up and tries to ignore the surrealism of returning to the Emirates, tries to ignore the hurt of his former fans’ audible hatred for him.

They’ve taken his image down off the interior walls. Someone else is Arsenal’s number 9. He can’t remember where the visitor changing room is, so he just follows Christian and pretends it’s all OK.

This had been his home for almost his whole life. Now he isn’t welcome.

Assembling in the tunnel – apparently Hannibal had insisted Chuck start, probably because he craved the drama – next to his former friends is just plain odd.

His father walking straight past him without a single glance hurts so bad it stings.

Chuck won’t let himself react to the howls of ridicule, loathing, mockery that the Arsenal fans descend into, that he can hear even inside the tunnel.

He focuses on what’s good. The few bright spots. Olivier patting his back in solidarity, a former Arsenal boy too; the beam on the face of the little Chelsea mascot he’s partnered with when he takes hold of her hand and starts walking out of the tunnel; the Chelsea supporters screaming the club’s ‘Hansen’ chant for him, trying to drown out the Arsenal fans booing as he strides onto the pitch; when he glances at the TV display, the camera focuses on Belle in the stands.

Raleigh’s on the side-lines, face half-hidden in a Chelsea scarf, beanie low over his ears, as beautiful as ever.

As they line up, Chuck grips the little girl’s shoulders and keeps his back straight, his eyes forward. Once the pictures are done and the camera has swooped along them all, the girl turns, hugs him real quick and sprints off with the other kids. He kinda misses her almost immediately.

Then the handshaking starts; Chelsea, as the visitors, moving down the line of Arsenal players. To Chuck’s surprise, he gets a hug from almost every Arsenal bloke, except the guys who are new, that he doesn’t know.

Willian rubs the back of Chuck’s scalp and David Luiz kisses his cheek – David’s like that. Pierre-Emerick squeezes Chuck’s shoulders and shakes him a little, a smile on his face.

“Chuck! You ready?! Make it a good one, hit us with everything you’ve got!”

“You know it,” Chuck manages a real smile back, for once.

Cesar does the coin toss. They win. Kick-off.

Chuck wants to vomit. He rolls his neck on his shoulders. Places a foot on the ball, breathes in the smell of the turf, and waits for the whistle.

This. He can do this. This is all he can do. Everything melts away, no Belle, no Dad, no Raleigh fucking Becket.

The whistle blows.

Chelsea maintains first possession and Chuck focuses.

Ten minutes in, he flicks the ball past David Luiz, wide of Cedric, and reclaims it just as easy… he has a shot, it’s just him and the goalkeeper, his friend Bernd, and Chuck…

Chuck hesitates.

He hesitates.

He _hesitates_.

He’s never hesitated on goal in his _life_.

Bernd is focused, determined, doesn’t think for a second that Chuck, same-old-hotshot-glory-hungry Chuck Hansen won’t shoot, won’t try.

Chuck doesn’t shoot. Doesn’t try. Can’t. His joints locked up, his ligaments stiffen, his muscles won’t respond and it’s too late.

Bernd doesn’t see Tammy. Chuck sees Tammy.

An easy chip to him, and Tammy has scored before Bernd even tracks the pass. Then Tammy is leaping onto Chuck, howling in joy, and Chuck’s got an armful of skinny legs. He stumbles, laughing, but he’s kept on his feet by a whole press of Chelsea shirts as their teammates crowd them to celebrate.

Then it’s time to focus again, it’s not over yet, and…

He can do this. He _can_ do this. Chuck chants it to himself over and over, darting about, dodging defenders, weaving around midfielders, trying to be where his boys need him to be, trying to position himself to be effective, lethal, deadly. 

When he gets another chance on goal, almost at half-time now, Chuck doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t know who screams louder in delight when he scores, the Chelsea fans, or Olivier as he jumps on Chuck’s back, howling in his ear. Chuck stumbles and falls under his fellow forward’s weight, laughing into the grass, quickly buried under the bodies of their teammates as they pile on.

He’s still grinning and brushing turf off himself as the half-time whistle blows and he loops his arm around N’Golo’s shoulders as they jog from the pitch together.

He only stops smiling when he sees his father.

Herc, in his usual Arsenal hoodie, jeans and boots, is with Stacker at the far end of the tunnel. The cameramen are circling them hoping for some drama, but the two coaches ignore them, heads inclined together, looking totally relaxed and friendly. Chuck lets N’Golo go on ahead, can’t help but scowl at his father as he draws near.

Herc blinks at him, utterly unperturbed.

“That was a great assist, boy. You’re finally learning to pass, I see.”

“Just needed a better coach than you, old man,” Chuck spits, because he can’t help himself, he really can’t.

It’s Stacker who rounds on him, Stacker who’s unimpressed and offended, his voice low with anger. “Go on to the locker room, Chuck. And be mindful of your tone.”

“Relax, mate,” Herc gives his friend’s shoulder a squeeze. “Just my son putting on one of his usual performances.”

“Get fuck-”

“Locker. Room.” Stacker’s right pissed.

Herc pulls Stacker’s attention from Chuck, physically tugging the taller man back around to face him again.

“S’alright, mate.”

Chuck just smirks at his father and swaggers away. Fucking wanker.

He’s not smirking five minutes later, when Stacker announces Chuck’s off in the second half.

“You can’t! I played great out there! I _scored_.”

“I assure you; I can do whatever I damn well please, Hansen!”

“Oh, what the fuck!” Chuck jumps to his feet and shakes off the hand Cesar lays on his arm to try and restrain him. The locker room falls silent as all eyes watch Chuck; Cesar stands too, dithering next to him, looking uncertain in the face of Chuck’s fiery anger and Stacker’s cold rage.

“Is this because of what I said to Herc?” Chuck demands of Stacker. “You can’t bench me for that! The prick’s a fuckin’ wank- “

“You do NOT-” and Stacker is in his face, looking more livid than Chuck has ever seen him in his whole entire life. “You do NOT EVER use that sort of language about your father in front of me!”

“Jesus Christ!” Chuck sneers, because he can’t stop. He can’t stop. “What, are you in love with him or something?”

If it weren’t for Mako, rushing forward with a low murmur of ‘Dad!’ and putting her hands on Stacker’s chest, Chuck really thinks he would have had his ass kicked into next week.

Stacker takes several deep breaths, murders Chuck viciously in his mind, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by and lets Mako and Cesar urge him back.

When Chuck turns back to his seat, fuming, his teammates and the support staff have expressions ranging from disappointed to upset. Except for Raleigh, lingering at the door, who just looks his usual morose loser-ish self.

“You played so well out there. Why are you acting like this now? Why do you always have to ruin everything?” Raleigh asks him, voice carrying across the room.

Chuck stalks straight over to him and punches him clean in the face.

*

“Emotions are always high, during the derby,” Stacker tells the reporters, later. “It was hard for Hansen to return to play at the Emirates.”

Chuck, who had been sent home immediately in disgrace, watches the post-match press-conference from his couch as he cracks open his fourth beer. He doesn’t know what the score was, but Chelsea won. Good.

Calls he keeps ignoring – Mako, Hannibal, Belle, his father – light up his phone on the coffee table in front of him. Cesar’s been parked outside his security gate with Olivier and Petr for half an hour, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

Chuck’s going to be released, effective immediately, he already knows.

It doesn’t hurt.

On the screen, Stacker is calm, Mako at his side. They are as immovable and unshakeable as ever.

“Wankers,” Chuck grunts at the TV, as Mako coolly tells the reporters the situation is fully under control.

He keeps staring blankly at the screen even after the coverage has ended, even once it’s dark outside, even when he runs out of beer.

Tendo, the prick, lets himself in through Chuck’s gate and front door, because the bastard asshole wanker knows his security code and has a copy of his key.

With him is Raleigh, and Chuck glares blearily up at them as they loom over him.

Perhaps the sixth beer was a mistake.

“Fired, is it?” Chuck asks Tendo, choosing to ignore Raleigh, the sullen prick, altogether.

“Oh, probably,” Tendo’s lip curls as he takes in Chuck’s state, and Chuck sneers back. “Not my problem anymore, Chuck. I quit. I can’t save you this time, and I can’t afford to follow you down this death-spiral.”

“Fuck off then, wanker. And give me my key back!”

Tendo’s already out of the house, and he throws it back into the hall behind him before he slams the front door. Chuck smirks as he listens to it clattering along the marble floor of the entryway, a strangely pleasant sound.

“Guy’s such a wanker,” he tells Raleigh, who looks disturbed. “Almost as much as you.”

“Jesus, Chuck.” Raleigh rubs at his eyes, pulls off his beanie. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fuck’s it to you?” Chuck grunts back. Fuck, Raleigh is so fit. Even when he’s being a loser. Chuck grabs a handful of his stupid blue sweater and hauls him down onto his lap.

“C’mere…”

Raleigh shoves himself off him like he’s been burned, like Chuck’s made of acid or fire or a thousand tiny needles that prick and tear and hurt.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you!”

Chuck rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV.

“Either fuck me or leave.”

Instead, Raleigh shoves aside the beer bottles and sits down on his coffee table, blocking Chuck’s view.

“Why have you done this?”

“Why does it matter to you!”

“You realise you’ve destroyed your career! And for _what_?”

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Chuck allows, eyes lingering on Raleigh’s injured cheekbone. “But fuck, it felt good.”

“Jesus _Christ_. You need help!” Raleigh stands then, hands on his hips, done.

“I need _you_. Please,” Chuck tells him. “Please? I need you.”

“You’re drunk. You punched me. You think I _want_ you?”

“No.” Fuck no. Never. “But you need me too. You need me too, so c’mon…”

He’s on his feet, dizzy and reeling, stumbling, reaching, and Raleigh gathers him in his arms, starts hauling him towards the stairs. Chuck latches onto his neck as they go, nipping, sucking, trying to elicit some sort of reaction.

Raleigh grunts and moans and hisses, manages to manhandle Chuck up the stairs to his bedroom, out of his clothes, into his bed – thinking he’s going to get laid, Chuck doesn’t resist.

It’s only when Raleigh shoves him down onto his cold sheets and makes a beeline for the door that Chuck realises he’s been duped.

“Hey! Wanker! Get back here!”

He tries to follow, but he’s too dizzy, his head spinning, and getting up off the bed is just too hard. He falls asleep still grumbling, not sure why he does these things to himself, not sure why he so badly wants Raleigh to stay.


End file.
